"V 



Glass 




Copyright N»_!_iL^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Book of 



VERSE 



By 
CHARLES A. LANGWORTHY 




Copyright, I9i6,by C. A. Langworthy 



igib 

Kennebec "Journal Company 

Auguita^ Maine 









DEDICATION 

To him whose memory was filled 
With lines for each occasion, 

In whom harsh commerce had not stilled 
The tones of rhymed persuasion ; 

To her whose tasks, though never done, 

Sweet songs alleviated — 
Kind parents of a worthless son — 

This book is dedicated. 




m 17 1916 
©CI.A4314*21 



PREFACE 



The following poems owe their existence to various 
whims of my own. The responsibility for their pub- 
lication, however, rests squarely upon the shoulders 
of the Contributor's Club of Albion College, and is 
especially chargeable to Professor Phil H. Hembdt. 
He is kind enough to believe that friends of the col- 
lege must perforce be friends of one of its aspiring 
verse-makers. 

Should this book come into the hands of anyone 
outside the college circle, such a person should feel 
no sort of obligation to choke himself with this par- 
ticular dust from the hoof of Pegasus. 

On the other hand, it should be said that these are 
not, for the most part, college poems. Some of them 
have been written recently; many of them were writ- 
ten before I came to college ; some, I am afraid, before 
I entered high school. Could I have flattered myself 
with the certainty of improvement with growing ex- 
perience, I might have arranged them in some approx- 
imation of chronological sequence. As it is, they are 
thrown together, not without any principle of arrange- 
ment, I trust, but not at all in the order of composition. 

I hope it is quite needless to add that a book of 
poems should not be regarded as a sort of scrap-book 



IV PREFACE 

of autobiographical revelations. A short poem, to be 
sure, is usually the expression of a situation and its 
appropriate mood. One can hardly express that which 
is altogether foreign to him ; but the hunger for other- 
ness and universality may lead the writer, just as it 
leads the reader, into moods and situations which are 
not mere cross-sections of his own personal experi- 
ence. 

But since prefaces are never read, I will desist from 
further explanations, and leave the hypothetical reader 
to shift for himself. 

C. A. L. 
Albion, Michigan, 

January 21, 191 5 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Our Pilot Of The Deep . . . . i 

Infidelity 3 

In The Cool Of The Day . . 4 

Pagan And Christian 5 

Lord God Of All. 6 

While Nations War 7 

The Heart's Remonstrance . 8 

Saturday Night 11 

In A Library- .13 

The Leaf (P^rom the French) 14 
The Simple Life (From 

Horace) 15 

The Tenth Epistle Of 

Horace 16 

Class Day Poem, 1908 19 

The Death of Leander 22 

The Cliff Of Clea 24 

Niagara 29 

To Lake Huron 29 

Fishing 30 

At The River Mouth 31 

Fancy 33 

The Idler 33 

The Sea-Seeker 35 

Pan's Apology 37 

Soul Surface 37 

My Madeline 38 

A Portrait 39 

A Maiden's Chamber . . 40 

Morning 40 



Nature's Guest 41 

Living Lyrics 43 

A Love Lilt 43 

Completion 44 

Cupid Aboard 44 

The Senior Maid 46 

The Devil Take The Girl. .47 

Why We Celebrate 47 

The Invisible Harvest 48 

The Poet's Pain 49 

Prayer Of The Weary Heart 50 

What is a Sonnet ?. 51 

To Poesy 52 

To Elizabeth Barrett Brown- 
ing 52 

To Edgar Allan Poe 53 

To Thee, Bright Spirit. 54 

The Church 54 

The Atheist 55 

Omega 56 

A November Day 56 

Despair and Scorn 57 

Christmas Eve. 58 

A Soul's Error 58 

Repentance 59 

A Modern Omar 61 

On the Wheel. 62 

The Exposal 64 

Light And Dark 65 

Forebodings 66 



VI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



The Dewdrops And The Sun 67 

The Answer 67 

Her Piano 68 

De Profundis 69 

Sigh On, Sad Winds ..70 

Ponce de Leon — 71 

All-Seeing Or Unseeing 74 

At Dawn And Youth 76 

Out Of Tune 77 

Mother Mine 77 

Star Of My Life 78 



Sorrow's Bond 79 

Beneath The Stars 80 

Your Birthday 81 

Our Christmas. 82 

Sleep, Darling, Sleep 83 

A Lullaby 84 

In Fairyland 85 

Nevertheless 85 

Twilight 86 

Gone 86 

The Harbor Call 87 



A Book of Verse 



OUR PILOT OF THE DEEP* 

They called to us, the pilots of the shore, 

"Beware the outer deep! 
Follow the sea-paths men have sailed before, 
The sheltered routes, the safe and charted ways,, 
Among the islands and the land-locked bays 

Where the wild waters sleep." 

But we replied, "We feel the outbound breeze,. 

The outward-setting tide; 
The far horizons lure us from the leas. 
Oh, here we can not sail ! The grating shoals 
Drag at the keel ; ever the good ship rolls 

Idly from side to side. 

"If we were meant to warp upon the sand. 

Why were we furnished thus? 
Sails and not anchors did the builder's hand 
Equip us with, keels for the deep-sea swell." 
Grimly the pilots answered, "Then, farewell — 
Farewell to God and us." 

^n memory of Professor Fredrlc Coe Demorest. 



A BOOK OF VKRSIC 

So we sailed out, some reckless, some in tears, 

Out where the soul finds room: 
Out to the deep-sea joys and deep-sea fears 
Where paths are made, not followed, ever glad 
For keel depth and for sail room, and yet sad. 
Sad on a sea of doom. 

And then one hailed us with a hearty voice 

Across the waters broad. 
We listened wondering for he cried, "Rejoice! 
'Tis God that urges to the outer seas, 
God's was the outward tide, the outbound breeze 

The very breath of God.'' 

One morn his sail had vanished, and no more 

We heard his hearty hail. 
Lost, as so many ships were lost before: 
As all are lost, both those that dare the deep. 
And those that round the coward coasts do creep 

With charts and shortened sail. 

We mourn our deep-sea pilot; we have lost 

His father-love and care. 
The misty seas we traverse he has crossed. 
And yet we must not mourn him over-much, 
For helms of wandering ships may feel his touch 

On wide seas other-where. 



A BOOK OF VKRSF, 



INFIDELITY 



I walked at sunset by the river's marge 

To see, upon the farther side, the light 

Gleam and rebound from many a polished shaft 

Of stone memorial. Behind me lay, 

Beyond a few fenced fields and knots of trees. 

The little city with its spires and stacks 

Against the glowing west. 

Deliberately 
The sun withdrew; all softened into dusk. 
And now the tombs which had so proudly gleamed 
Showed gray and cold through rising river-mists, 
While overhead the stars were gathering 
To hold their silent converse till the dawn. 

And then I turned, and walked the winding road 
Back to the city streets. But ere I reached 
The avenue by lighted arches spanned, 
Passed many a squalid hut, met many a man 
Whose eyes shot pain and hunger into mine. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 



IN THE COOL OF THE DAY 

I walked with God in the cool of the day 

Under the shade of the trees, 
When the sun was low on his circling way 

And sweet was the breath of the breeze. 

And I talked with God in the forest shade 
Which the long beams slanted through, 

As a maid might talk to a listening maid 
Or a man might talk to you. 

And ever his speech was open and clear; 

But sometimes I could not tell 
What his answers meant, though sweet on my ear 

His low, grave accents fell. 

And sometimes he answered not at all. 

As though he had never heard; 
Yet his silence was gracious as was the fall 

Of each slow, simple word. 

And the words most clear, the words most free, 
Oh, I cannot recall what they were. 

For I lost the answers he gave to me 
In my heed of the answerer. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 

Yet many replies he granted me there 

In the cool shade under the trees, 
In a fair, frank manner that asked no prayer 

And sought no bend of the knees. 

Till I asked him the meaning of life and light 
In the clutch of the dark and decay; 

Of the old, old tangle of wrong and right, 
And the debt that the soul must pay — 

As the shadow and sheen on the round of a limb. 
Was it thus with the evil and good? 

And God kept silence, the day grew dim; 
Yet God was there in the wood. 



PAGAN AND CHRISTIAN 

Peace throughout all that pagan world, 
No flight of spear, no thrust of sword, 

The eagle banners all were furled, 

Three continents owned Augustus lord. 

Peace in the solemn sky that bent 
Above the babe at Bethlehem, 

The star-bespangled firmament 
His only diadem. 



A BOOK OF VlUiSK 

And now when emperor and king 
Bow down before the manger-born, 

And temple bells his praises ring 
In western worlds at eve and mom, 

Loud war blasphemes on sea and shore 
Nor spares the very skies above, 

While Christians, red with Christian gore, 
Invoke their God of love. 



LORD GOD OF ALL 

Lord God, Lord God, oh, long enough 

Men have called thee God of the Jew; 

The God of the Spanish, German, French, 

The God of the Russian, too; 

The special God of English crime, 

God of American greed, 

God of Nile's mud or of Ganges' slime. 

Or of any single breed. 

From northern ice and torrid sun. 

Lord God, at last we call 

To the God of a world, of a universe — 

Lord God, Lord God of All. 

The Moslem spurred o'er the burning waste 
To slay God's foe and gain 



A BOOK OF VERSE 7 

His harem-houri of the soul 

Where lusts immortal reign. 

The Christian died on Syrian sand 

Happy if he had killed 

One devil's imp with his failing brand 

Where his God's own blood was spilled. 

In the name of his God the Catholic burned 

The heretic at the stake, 

And Calvin burned the unelect 

His God's hot wrath to slake. 

The Spaniards launched their floating hell 

And prayed their God to steer; 

The English put their trust in God — 

Their God — and felt no fear. 

The North called God to aid the right; 

The South, to save the wronged : 

Hot prayers through the smoke of every fight 

To the God of a section thronged ; 

For his Emperor God died the Japanese; 

And the low-browed Russian fell 

Dreaming he served the God of the Czar, 

Who was God of the world as well. 

Lord God, Lord God, shall we ever cease 

Making stones of the toiler's bread 

To cram an iron mouth of hell 

And thunder his brother dead? 

Will the time ever come when the mother may know 

When her arms round her new-born are thrown 



8 A BOOK OF VHIRSE 

That no bursting bomb into fragments may blow 

This tender flesh of her own? 

Lord God, Lord God, from the smoke of wars 

We waged at some fool's call. 

Lord God we yearn, Lord God we turn 

Toward the God who is God of All! 



WHILE NATIONS WAR 

Here the tall stacks belch out their sooty waste, 
And all the ground is black and gritty-gray; 
Here dingy freight cars smirch the glaring day, 
And scrap-heap piles with grease and rust defaced. 

Here, huddled close and ranged in rigid rows 
With ugly sameness, stand the houses where 
The moilers in the neighboring mills repair 
At dusty dusk when the harsh whistle blows. 

And here their wives and babes, through crusted panes 
And cobwebbed screens, behold the unlovely scene 
Of slag and grime devoid of living green — 
Where ghastly greed the face of God disdains. 

Here glaring day succeeds to glaring day, 
Rolling in sullen rhythm, grinding out 
Their pitiful by-products, wistful doubt, 
Sullen despair, crushed youth, horizons gray. 



A BOOK OF VERSE C 

No change, no respite, save night hours swilled 
Within the dens of drink or dives of shame. 
Where their gray lives find color in the flame 
Of self-consuming fires, soon quenched and chilled. 

And all the while, afar on trampled fields, 
Hot, quivering flesh is kneaded into clay, 
And dupes and drudges in one hellish day 
Destroy what a year of toil would yield; 

Meaning that dupes and drudges, yet unborn. 
Shall lead gray lives to pleasure knaves and fools. 
While ragged waifs in patriotic schools 
Yearn for the call of the thrilling bugle-horn. 



THE HEART'S REMONSTRANCE 

Bow down, bow down your foreheads to the dust! 
And bow your pride — O put no further trust 

In your weak hands and wills! 
Lo, you have built upon the shifting sands. 
Fallen are the works of your unheedful hands. 
Swept like cloud-castles from the morning hills. 

Bow down, bow down! The God whom you forgot 
Fans the fierce fire within your hearts, and hot 
Your senseless anger is 



10 A BOOK OF V1:KSK 

As was the zeal wherewith you built, the pride 

Of foolish trust which made you all deride 

The heart's high creed that might have hindered this. 

Bow down, bow down ! You trusted in your might. 
You had no faith in mercy, in the right; 

You built an iron wall 
About your shrines, because you thought the power 
Of greed and hate must prop or else the tower 

Of truth would fall. 



Bow down, bow down! For lo, these many years 
You have simpered of love, shed sentimental tears 

For the world's sin and woe. 
And all the while your deeds have sung the praise 
Of Mammon and Might, and feverish nights and days 

Have seen your idols grow. 

Bow down, bow down ! Your idols of iron and brass 
Have drunk men's blood in the making, and now, alas, 

They drink your brothers' blood. 
With the crushed lives of toilers what have you built 
But monsters to belch forth your hearts' red guilt, 

And swell death's bitter flood. 



Bow down, bow down ! Trust not your flaunting flags, 
Your rolling drums, your cannon-crested crags, 
Your steaming isles of steel. 



A BOOK OF VE:rSE II 

The sword smites back, the slayer becomes the slain, 
You deal out death, and death is your only gain. 
What you inflict you feel. 

Bow down, bow down ! Bow till your brains are cool. 
Bow till the head has gone to the heart to school — 

And then, arise, arise! 
Be bold, be strong, trust your word and your deed. 
Dare to follow the Christ and act his creed 

Under the open skies. 



SATURDAY NIGHT 

Saturday night and rain, the main street crowded full : 
Dripping, dodging shoppers, bums in every shelter, 
Carriages with covers up. Farmer women pull 
Nervously upon the lines while the autos skelter. 

I hurry across a slippery pave and through an alley- 
way. 

Reach a residential street. Ah, the solemn dripping 

Through gigantic glooms above (common trees by 
day) 

Only here and there a beam through the shadows 
slipping. 



12 A BOOK OF VERSE 

All daylight discrepancies of color and of shape — 
Tangled curves and angles, shabby grays and glaring 
Independent yellows — now no longer gape, 
No competing uglinesses at each other staring. 

Hollow rumbles underfoot, I reach the little stream. 
Shy and sad it takes its way, a stranger through the 

city, 
Seems to loiter in the shade and hurry through the 

gleam, 
Has no greeting for the crowd but hums a woodland 

ditty. 

Lonesome, lonesome is the note you murmur on your 

course, 
Little river from the dark into the darkness going, 
Lonesome not for brawling brooks, intruders at your 

source. 
Lonesome for the tribute streams down their deep 

channels flowing. 

Sick am I of shallow streets as you of shallow brooks ; 
Longing not for cheerful friends, oh, rather I am 

yearning 
For companionship of souls as quiet as my books, 
Not muffling up the ears with noise but to the silence 

turning. 



A BOOK OF VERSE I 3 

And ah, beyond the tribute streams you sense the 

solemn sea, 
Mighty mother: ever resting in unceasing motion, 
In whose depths you lose yourself as in eternity, 
Lose yourself, but in that loss find yourself the ocean. 



IN A LIBRARY 

With awe and shame I walk the padded aisles 

Among the crowded stacks of waiting books 

Which seem to throw from all their narrow nooks 

Reproachful glances and ironic smiles ; 

As though they sighed, "Another fool defiles 

Our sacred prison and with peering looks, 

Sure of his power of smug selection, brooks 

The awful largess of our treasure piles." 

But no, ah no! I come not now to take 

Out of its cell one of your multitude, 

Some thirst of curiosity to slake 

Or, like a mouse, to nibble costly food; 

Rather the throbbing streets I now forsake 

Here in your proud, tense silences to brood. 



14 A BOOK OF VERSE 



THE LEAF 



(From the French) 

'Toor, dry leaf on the ground, 
Whither, ah whither, art bound?" — 
*'How should I know? For the oak 
Bowed to the storm and broke; 
And thus of my one support 
Deprived, I am driven forth. 
Winds of the west, of the north. 
Whirl me about in their sport, 
Driven from forest to glade. 
Driven from mountain to vale. 
Nor pity nor fear has the gale 
For me. I go where goes 
Everything — where the leaf of the rose 
And the leaf of the laurel are laid." 



A BOOK OF VERSE 15 



THE SIMPLE LIFE 

(From Horace) 

I, the bard, what do I seek 
From new-shrined Apollo now? 
What does this fresh wine bespeak 
That I pour? 'Tis not, I vow, 

For Sardinia's grain-grown fields. 
Nor Calabria's herds that graze, 
Sleepy-sleek through sultry days. 
Gold or ivory India yields. 

No: nor for the meadows sweet. 
Where the Liris, silent stream, 
Loiters with reluctant feet. 
Loath to leave his pleasant dream. 

Let them prune the vine to whom 
Fortune gives the vineyard's care. 
For reward — that vintage rare 
Some rich merchant, I presume. 

Will drain dry from cup of gold, 
Wine with ware of Syria bought. 
Dear must be that merchant bold 
To the gods, for he has brought 



l6 A BOOK OF VRRSK 

Safely o'er Atlanta's wave, 
Three or four times in the year, 
All his cargoes, purchased dear. 
But for me, to wealth no slave, 

Simple fare shall be my feast: 
Olives, endives, mallows light; 
Luxury brings cares increased. 
Grant, Apollo, that aright 

I enjoy whatever my lot 
Brings to me in life's full prime; 
Then, when comes my autumn time, 
Let my harp be not forgot. 



THE TENTH EPISTLE OF HORACE 

Hail Fuscus! We who love the country send 

Greetings to you, our town-enamored friend. 

Divergent tastes have we in this alone, 

In all besides twin purposes we own : 

One our dislikes ; what either dove approves 

His fellow crony lauds with friendly coos. 

You love your city nest, but dearer far 

To me the blessings of the country are: 

Rivers and brooks and rocks half hid with moss, 

And shady groves where wind-swung branches toss. 



A BOOK OK VKRSie 17 

What ask you more? Complete I live and reign, 
Relieved from all you laud with loud acclaim, 
And what most seek; as, having fled the priest, 
The cake-cloyed servant fain would sparsely feast 
On coarse-grained bread. Now, if our lives should be 
In harmony with nature, and if we 
Should choose with care the home where we shall 

dwell. 
Know you a place which suits the case so well 
As does the blessed country? Do you know 
Where winters are more tempered, or where blow 
More grateful winds the Dog Star to assuage. 
Or calm the sun-roused Lion's ramping rage? 
Show me where Cares on Sleep less seldom wage 
Successful war. For fragrant sense and sheen 
Can stained mosaics compare with sylvan green? 
Does city water through your pipes of lead 
More purely flow than where, by brooklets fed, 
The rural river ripples o'er her bed? 
Why, e'en your columns imitate our trees! 
The house o'erlooking spreading lawns agrees 
With general taste. Forked out with might and main, 
Nature slips back into your haunts again. 
The trader who true Tyrian can not tell 
From that cheap purple which Aquinum's shell 
Does yield, receives less certain vital loss 
Than he who knows not Truth from Error's dross. 
Whoso is over-pleased by Fortune's smile 
Is shaken much when served in rougher style. 
If anything at all you much desire. 



l8 A BOOK OF verse: 

You'll dread its loss. Flee greatness ! Why aspire 
When those who dwell in huts in peace excel 
The kings and courtiers who in mansions dwell? 

The horse, unarmed to fight the horned deer, 

Had often fled the feeding ground in fear. 

At last for aid he took upon his back 

A rider, and so conquered — but, alack, 

He'd lost his liberty: he could not shake 

The rider off, the bit he could not break. 

He who for fear of poverty prefers 

Money to liberty thus basely errs, 

Since he must bear a rider on his back 

And serve for aye because of one great lack, 

The skill to use a little. Ill at ease 

Is he with his affairs. They can not please. 

For when the shoe 's too great, the ankle turns; 

And when too small, the cramped foot aches and 

burns. 
Contented with your lot you wisely live, 
Aristus ; and I hope you will not give 
Unpunished liberty to me who seem 
To urge advice in never-ending stream. 
Collected wealth will serve, or else command ; 
See that you pull the rope, or understand 
'Twill drag you after. This I dictate here 
At ease, soft-shaded by the temple near, 
Sacred to rest, Vacuna's mouldering shrine — 
My one regret, your lot is not as mine. 



A BOOK OF VKRSE I 9 



CLASS DAY POEM, 1908 

The law of life is change; we cannot stay. 
Though paths be pleasant, and the dallying breeze 
Sing us a siren song of dreamful ease, 
The Soul of souls commands, "Away, away !" 

The law of life is change. Though paths be steep, 
And in despair we fling us down and cry, 
''Another step, O God, we cannot try!" 
We must go up, or, as the torrents sweep 

From the pure peaks whose brows of taintless snow 
Bathe in the far serene of crystal blue, 
Down, down we'll plunge the muddy gorges through, 
With souls all stained, to vaporous vales below. 

Each day is a Commencement, and each night 
Writes on the deeds of daylight Nevermore; 
We part — to meet, perhaps — but on time's shore 
Never again to taste the same delight. 

Fain would we stay the eternal tide of time, 
And loiter where we've found that life is sweet, 
Greet every day the friends we love to greet — 
Pleasant the flowery vale, why should we climb? 



20 A BOOK OF VERSE 

O college days ! O glad companionship ! 

O young hearts beating high with hope and cheer, 

It cannot be our parting is so near! 

Why have our handclasps this convulsive grip? 

What dreams of conquest have we cherished here! 
What purposes to wrap the whole wide world 
In the warm mantle of our love, enfurled 
From pain, and doubt, despair, and cringing fear! 

Buoyant the heart of youth as song of lark; 
Yet not so bright has been our path alway, 
But we have seen gold sunsets fade to gray. 
And felt the cheerless chill of closing dark. 

The law of life is change. Be this our joy 
That though the golden promise of to-day 
We cannot hold, to-morrow's dawning ray 
May bring us golden good with less alloy. 

Better is e'er before us, let us on ; 
On to the joy of service, on to make 
The world a little better, and to take 
The crown for those who gladly, boldly don 

Truth's armor, and undaunted to the end, 
Fight the good fight, for self, for man, for God ; 
Smite every wrong with never wearying rod 
Till heaven and earth at God's horizon blend. 



A BOOK OF VERSIC 21 

But may we shun the mad, unthinking strife — 
Curse of this age — ^ which wildly brawls along, 
Drowning in vulgar clamor, fierce and strong, 
God's still, small voice which whispers through the life 

Of quiet, open souls with ears atune 

To every subtle melody on high, 

Who hear the star songs drop from summer sky. 

And night's sad sandals pace the rustling gloom. 

Silent the path that leads us to the best. 
Behold the thunderous waves which madly seek 
To scale the shore and gain the purple peak 
Leap up the rocky strand with wild unrest. 

But no: their high-flung spray but bathes the base 
Of towering cliffs along the barrier shore. 
Vainly they dash and foam; with baffled roar 
Each billow breaks against the rock's black face. 

But in the glassy calm, each tiny drop 
That feels the thrill of the sun's searching love 
Rises unnoticed, and from clouds above 
Falls, crystal pure, on the white mountain top. 

So, listening to the voices of the stars, 
Let us step out on our divergent ways. 
Sure that the rosy gates of future days 
Hold greater gifts behind their glowing bars. 



22 A BOOK OF VERSE 

Farewell, old Albion! A long farewell 

To those w^hose noble precepts, nobler lives, 

Have shown the blest reward of whoso strives 

To gain the heights where Truth's companions dwell. 

Farewell, old Albion! We cannot name 

Thy pleasant nooks, thy thousand sad, sweet ties 

Which softening recollection sanctifies, 

And love illumines with her holy flame. 

Farewell, old Alma Mater! Sterner calls 
Sound in the soul and we must haste away. 
Dear wast thou ever, dearer far to-day — 
Blessings forever on thy sacred walls! 



THE DEATH OF LEANDER 

The stinging spray beats hard against my face, 

And each high-crested billow 

Buries my head in whelming sheets of foam; 

A dread foreboding of the cold embrace 

Of Neptune's nymphs, deep in their horrid home, 

Shudders along my limbs, as shakes the willow 

In the first blast from winter's icy peak. 
My strength is almost gone. O Gods above. 
For one brief moment of that glad life's flood 
As when with bounding heart and flushing cheek, 



A BOOK OF VKRSE 23 

Tumultuous joy atingle in my blood, 
I clove the sunset calm to seek my love! 
Now a ghastly gray creeps from the orient 
Athwart the starless gloom of sky and wave, 
The first dim promise of the shrouded morn. 
Such mockery of light the gods have sent 
To one whose spirit sinks to Styx forlorn, 
Without a tomb to mark his oozy grave. 

Hero, my love, I ne'er shall clasp again 

Thy radiant form. The jealous gods have reft 

The more than mortal bliss we twain enjoyed. 

I sink, I sink amid the monstrous main 

Whose mad roar smites my ears to right and left, 

Whose hundred tongues froth up to lick the void. 

I faint, I swoon, my limbs are numb and chill, 
A dizzy sickness flutters at my heart, 
All is a blur, a blank and gurgling fall — 
Gloat, then, ye jealous Gods, aye, gloat your fill ! 
But age to age shall hear Leander's call; 
Triumphant love defies death's bitter dart! 



24 A BOOK OF VERSE 



THE CLIFF OF CLEA 

The dark sea moans 

And the forest groans 
At night by the Cliff of Clea; 

And woe to the ship 

Whose timbers split 
At its base in the boiling sea. 

For the rock is steep 
Where the mad waves leap, 

Leap up from the moaning sea; 
And no hand to save 
From the gulfing wave; 

None dwell by the Cliff of Clea. 

No cot doth lurk 

In the woods, no kirk 
Lifts spire nigh the Cliff of Clea; 

At night none care 

To loiter there 
Where hollow rumbles the sea. 

For when midnight's near 

A laugh you hear 
Go shivering over the sea : 

An unhallowed sprite 

In the dead of night 
Laughs loud from the Cliff of Clea. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 25 

Though the night be mild 

That laughter wild 
Shrills out from the Cliff of Clea; 

When roars the storm 

That laugh of scorn 
Shrieks high o'er the roar of the sea. 

Oh, the blood runs chill 

And the heart stands still 
To hear o'er the shivering sea 

That fiendish sound 

Run echoing round 
The horrible Cliff of Clea. 

For, years ago 

(As old wives know) 
On the strand near the Cliff of Clea, 

A youth did part 

From his own sweetheart 
And sailed o'er the murmuring sea. 

By the ocean blue 

He swore to be true 
While he sailed on the sundering sea; 

But his heart soon strayed 

From the lonely maid 
Who watched on the Cliff of Clea. 

Ah, oft she wept, 
And little she slept, 



26 A BOOK OF VERSE 

That maid on the Cliff of Clea; 

While her lover played 

With a foreign maid 
On the further shore of the sea. 

At last, one night 

While the moon shone bright, 
She saw on the shimmering sea 

The longed-for ship 

Round the headland slip 
Toward the cove near the Cliff of Clea. 

The ship drew near, 

That ship so dear 
To the maid on the Cliff of Clea, 

And she cried ''All hail!" 

For she saw by the rail 
Her loved one safe from the sea. 

But the ship wore round, 

At that joyous sound ; 
And, gazing over the sea, 

At her loved one's side 

A foreign bride 
She saw from the Cliff of Clea. 

As the great ship passed. 
He held her fast 
And laughed o'er the moonlit sea; 
With his foreign bride 



A BOOK OF VERSE 27 

Clasped close to his side 
He sailed from the Cliff of Clea. 

Then the maid looked high 

To the moon-throned sky 
That arched o'er the shimmering sea : — 

"O God, for a breeze 

And monster seas! 
For a wreck at the Cliff of Clea!" 

But the sea was calm 

And the ship sailed on, 
Away from the Cliff of Clea, 

And the moon looked down 

With never a frown 
On the ship and the shimmering sea. 

Then the cross that hung 

Round her throat she flung 
With a fierce curse into the sea, 

And she shrieked her prayer 

To the Prince of the Air 
For a wreck on the Cliff of Clea. 

Black clouds right soon 

Did smother the moon, 
And the blast roared up from the sea; 

The thunders crashed, 

And the breakers lashed 
The base of the Cliff of Clea. 



28 A BOOK OF verse: 

Each tough tall mast 

Was snapped by the blast, 
And the madly boiling sea 

Hurled the ship amain 

Through the hurricane 
Toward the terrible Cliff of Clea. 

And pale on the deck 
Of the shuddering wreck, 

Gazing up at the CHff of Clea, 
The youth and his bride 
By the maid were descried 

As she glared o'er the plunging sea. 

Then her laugh shrieked high 
To the storm-strewn sky 

As the crashing, crunching sea 
With one shivering shock 
Split the ship on the rock 

At the base of the Cliff of Clea. 

Then, laughing again. 

She leaped into the main, 
Leaped down from the Cliff of Clea; 

But with fiendish delight 

Even yet in the night 
Sounds that laugh o'er the moaning sea, 



A BOOK OF VERSE 29 



NIAGARA 



Thunders of God, dropped down into the world, 
Divorced of heaven's frown and forked fires, 
Heard where Niagara's gleaming spray is hurled 
High heavenward by power that never tires; 

Titanic notes, long echoing down the ages, 
Filling the savage heart with awe and wonder, 
To think — ah God, my soul's hot anger rages! — 
Mean modern man would sell your thrilling thunder. 



TO LAKE HURON 

Dear Huron, how I love thy changing mood! 

Whether the blue dome arches o'er thy breast. 

Or clouds tempestuous o'er thy waters brood, 

I love thee when thou liest still at rest; 

But more, when rocking in the mad wind's arms. 

Thy trampling billows churn the thund'rous bar. 

While on the blurred horizon line afar 

Thou kissest the murk sky with frothy lips. 

And o'er thee shrieks the gull with shrill alarms, 

And madly plunge the rocking, rolling ships. 

For I was born upon thy shingly strand, 

My infant ears drank in thy music wild, 

And those same notes which charmed me when a child 

In riper years aye call me from the land. 



30 A BOOK OF VERSE 



FISHING 

Up at dim, gray dawn and out on the lumber docks, 
While a chill mist rose from the bay, and a dead swell 

sobbed in the slabs, 
Numb hands holding a pole that shook with the cold 

and the knocks 
Of a youthful fisherman's heart, athrill for the hungry 

grabs 



Of the great lake perch. And then — oh, the tug on 

the bending pole. 
The splash at the surface, the swing of the dripping, 

wriggling prize! 
Will he slip from the hook and be lost where the deep 

gray waters roll. 
Or land with mouth agape, spread fins, and staring 

eyes ? 

Ah, sometimes the fishing was good, and sometimes 
no fish at all 

Deigned to be fooled by the bait ; but better than fins 
or scales 

I drew from the lake and the sky, the depth and the 
distance, the tall 

Masts of the anchored ships or spread of the quiver- 
ing sails. 



A BOOK OF VERSK 31 

Oh, the marvelous fish that I caught! — the mystic 

birth-light of dawn, 
The miracle of the sun's rising, God's breath in the 

stir of the breeze, 
The guttural gush of the swell, monotonous, low, and 

forlorn — 
What fisher can equal my catch, though he rifle the 

wealth of the seas? 



AT THE RIVER MOUTH 

Often I walked the tramway between the lumber piles, 
Breathing a resinous fragrance, the odor of sawn pine. 
Stirred by freshening whiffs, if the day were fair, 

from the miles 
Of the open lake that sparkled to the horizon line. 

The tramway followed the river, and then at the 

river's mouth 
Angled straight to the left, and here at the turn of 

the dock, 
Reached by a bit of a bridge and facing east by south, 
Was the square-built lighthouse pier, a strong box 

filled with rock. 

A low, stout, tapering tower stood on the solid pier. 
Open below; in whose shelter when the rain hissed 
into the foam. 



32 A BOOK OF VERSE 

You might sit on the stairs that led to the chambers 

above, and hear 
The shock of the buffeting waves and watch the tugs 

come home. 

Oh, the rolling, plunging tugs, ever pursued and 
pursued 

By the tumbling, crumbling monsters born of the 
breath of the gale! 

Oh, the reckless tugs that rode on the backs of this 
giant brood 

As a merman bold might ride on the back of a mad- 
dened whale. 

Ah, here have I watched and listened all seasons and 

all weathers, 
At sunrise, sunset, noonday, by the light of the stars 

or the moon; 
And here have I stood with God when, black as a 

raven's feathers, 
A starless midnight brooded, and the world lay deep 

in a swoon. 

And now in my snug study where never a great wave 

jars. 
Where the books are ranged, and the pen plods with 

the plodding hour, 
When sick of the steps of thought, my soul leaps out 

to the stars, 
I hear the plunge of the billows at the base of that 

lighthouse tower. 



A BOOK O^ VERSE 33 



FANCY 



vVhere lisps the ripple on the marge, 
The reedy marge of little lake, 
The boy has launched his tiny barge. 
He sees the foaming billows break 

O'er jagged rocks, he hears the roar 
Upthundering from the heaving main ; 
The while his barge is bobbing o'er 
The dimpled surface, and has ta'en 

Her course afoul a waving weed — 
God save the struggling crew! The wreck 
Drives rockward where the demons lead; 
Death's jaws have crunched the groaning deck! 



THE IDLER 

At earliest morn, before the sun 
Had tinged the waves with rose and gold, 
He sat him down upon a bold 
Out-jutting crag where breakers run; 

And the split crests, on either side 
Back curling from the granite beak. 



34 A BOOK OF VKRSE 

Rush to the shore they madly seek 
And waste in foam their towering pride. 



He sat him down with shoulders bent 
And propped his chin between his hands, 
The while the billow-trampled sands 
Tumultuous plaint to the morning sent. 



Up came the sun with golden glint 
On billow's crest and whitening sail, 
And sea-gulls, poising on the gale. 
Caught and returned the glorious tint. 



While still he sat with musing eye. 
All thoughtless of the worried world. 
As nested bird with pinions furled 
Sleeps, swaying soft, 'neath starlit sky. 

All day he sat ; while gleaming specks 
Crossed and recrossed the wedded blue, 
And fisher craft went plunging through 
The boiling shoals with streaming decks. 

Down sank the sun ; the western clouds 
Glowed with the tints of gold and rose, 
While breakers, white as mountain snows, 
Still pressed upon the beach in crowds. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 



35 



No skill had he to weave the line 
Or wield the painter's magic brush. 
Child-heart, to him the roaring rush 
Of wind and wave was all divine. 



THE SEA-SEEKER 

"Ah, graybeard mariner, prithee stay! 
Rotten thy boat and rough the wave; 
Thou'rt mad in that worn wreck to brave 
The thunderous billow's tossing spray. 
Tarry thou here ashore with me" — 
''Hinder me not, I seek the sea." 

''Thou seekest the sea ! Why, wild old man, 
Thy beard 's o'erfrothed with ocean foam, 
The sea, methinks, has been thy home 
A long life's many-seasoned span. 
Wherefore thy answer riddles me; 
The sea thou hast found, why seek the sea?" 

"My son" — the gray-beard turned his eyes. 
Eager as youth, but calm as stars 
Which watch all night from cloudless skies 
O'er rolling deeps and wrangling bars, 
Turned he his bright, calm eyes on me — 
"Not mad am I who seek the sea. 



36 A BOOK OF VERSE 

** Though many a zephyr mild, 'tis true, 
Has fanned my skiff along the deep. 
And oft betwixt the blue and blue, 
I've felt the storm, sea-shaking, sweep, 
Yet new and strange these sights to me 
And, wonder-thrilled, I seek the sea. 

**Ah many and many a time I've sailed 
Toward the setting sun o'er waves of fire, 
With heart athrob and cheek that paled, 
My soul all eager to inquire 
Of sea sprites fair who sang to me 
And lured me on to seek the sea. 

"For the sea — the sea 's a wonder wild 
In every roll, in every roar; 
In sleep serene and starry mild. 
Or madly plunging 'gainst the shore. 
The illusive sea-soul lureth me — 
Hark, the waves call — I seek the sea." 



A BOOK OF VERSE 37 



PAN'S APOLOGY 

She spoke and my heart listened — 

How could it else? 

Ah silver tones that thrilled the pulsing air, 

Ethereal melody beyond compare, 

Such as the mosses hear, when on them pelts 

The floweret bell, with pearly dews o'erglistened ; 

I could but hear, 

And follow over brook and shimmering mere — 

One thought, but one, to keep that voice anear. 



SOUL SURFACE 

Fair face, pure face, of sweet and mobile lines, 
The home of light and shadow! Changing moods 
Swift glance into each other like the rhymes 
Of subtle, vibrant odes. Now fancy broods 

Deep in the inmost heart, now flits and hovers 
A moment o'er a prompted thought, as lovers 
Gaze on the moon's face that with transient gleam 
Bathes her in blue the gulfing clouds between. 

Fair face, pure face, that through all changes shows 
Haunted forever by a restless pain; 



38 A BOOK OF VERSE 

The eyes o'ersun with laughter, and the glows 
Of joy shine sweetly through; but soon again 
Comes yearning pain back to those soul-deep eyes, 
And shadowed sorrow on the sweet face lies. 

O vestal soul, 

So delicately, beautifully shrined 

In thy translucent fane, 

Ah, what thy dole? 

Ah, what thy shadowing sorrow dim-descried? 

Ah what thy yearning pain? 



MY MADELINE 

I search the depths of thy blue eyes, 

My Madeline; 
The sweet, chaste light that purifies 
Out-shines from those clear orbs, which rise 
To meet my own with gaze divine. 

My Madeline. 

Such sweet, unconscious purity, 

My Madeline, 
I can but meet all reverently; 
All reverently, tho' tenderly, 
I gaze into those eyes of thine. 

My Madeline. 



A BOOK OF verse: 39 

And thou canst never know nor guess, 

My Madeline, 
Nor ever can my tongue express 
How much, how many thou dost bless 
By thy unconscious holiness, 

My Madeline. 

Only the angel host on high. 

My Madeline, 
The angel host that ever fly 
To guard thy form and hover nigh. 
Can count the stars which crown thy sky, 

My Madeline. 



A PORTRAIT 

A darkling sheen of the eyes, 
Incomparable curve of the lips. 
Ruby-red, where the smile never dies; 
Dainty fingers whose tapering tips 

Rest caressingly there on the rose 
Whose envious beauty 's upturned — 
Pathetic despair in its pose — 
To your face where the secret 's unlearned. 



40 A BOOK OF VERSE 



A MAIDEN'S CHAMBER 

This is her chamber. What a sacred air 
Pervades the place ! How often have these walls 
Heard the low murmur of her whispered prayer, 
Here at the bedside altar uttered, where 
Heaven has oped her pearly-portaled halls! 



MORNING 



Oh sing me a song, little bird, 
A song of the thrilling rapture 
You feel when you mount the blue, 
And the first red sunbeam capture; 
As you soar from the glistening dew, 
Past the rustling leaves, wind-stirred, 

What joy to feel 

The morn's breath steal 
With soft caress 'neath your pulsing wings, 

While the white mists rise 

To the rosy skies. 
Morn's cup bubbling o'er with the joy he brings. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 4I 



NATURE'S GUEST 

Oh, naught so fair 

In earth or air, 
In ocean, rill, or fountain! 

No form of grace 

The eye may trace 
In woodsy dell or mountain! 

Ah, maiden sweet. 

What graces meet 
In you I What beauties shower 

From Nature's hand! 

For you command 
All Aphrodite's dower. 

That gladsome morn 

When you were born 
The lark, the lark soared higher, 

And through the blue 

Brought down to you 
Twin spheres of starry fire. 

How else surmise 

You gained those eyes 
Whose glance, so tremulous sweet, 

Doth thrill the heart 

Whene'er they dart 
There shafts of maddening heat? 



42 A BOOK OF VKKSE 

Could one distil 

The rosy thrill 
From heaven's blossoming dawn, 

Could the rippling sheen 

Where lilies lean 
From the laughing brook be drawn, 

Each floweret fair, 

All jewels rare, 
All shells that sea-beds tile 

Their myriad glow 

Give up — ah no, 
'Twould not suggest your smile! 

Since Nature's arms 
Embrace no charms 

The best whereof can mate yours, 
A light divine 
On you must shine, 

A light more fair than Nature's. 



A BOOK OF VERSEJ 43 



A LIVING LYRIC 



Who shall name the witching light that glances from 

her dancing eyes? 
Or the sweetly thrilling music of her soft and low 

replies ? 
Or the heart-entangling charm that in each raven 

ringlet lies? 
Liquid murmur of the stream, shifting colors of the 
skies, 

All combined 

In one pearl. 
Sweetly rhymed 
In one girl — 
All combined and sweetly rhymed in each coyly curv- 
ing curl. 



A LOVE LILT 

Mine own, at the dawn of the day 
I love thee, I love thee, I love thee! 
When the sun shoots his hot noontide ray. 
Then I love thee, I love thee, I love theef 
And now while the glow fades away. 
And the stars stud the blue dome above me,. 
My heart sings the same lilting lay — 
O I love thee, I love thee, I love thee! 



44 A BOOK OF VERSE 



COMPLETION 

Mine own, I have followed the forest trails, 

And slept by many a plashing waterfall; 

Have heard the murmur of the leafy sails, 

Wind-stirred, felt the soft-saddening pall 

Of twilight gloom 

Stoop from the darkening sky and wrap the slumb'rous 

world. 
Till all enfurled 

In soothing shade, sharp crag and flower's bloom: 
And all was fair; 
Yet everywhere — 
Below, above — 
A haunting incompleteness, 
Till, flooding all with sweetness, 
Came love. 



CUPID ABOARD 

Away, away ! The rolling bay 

Is sparkling in the sun. 
And fresh and fair the breezes dare 

The bold to share the fun. 

O fresh and free for you and me 
Be sure the breezes blow. 



A BCX)K OF VERSE 45 

Then leave the strand, the dusty land — 
Away, away we go! 

O sweet to feel the gurgling keel 

Beneath ! To watch the sail 
Swell out to lee! Each eager sea 

O'erclimbs the dipping rail. 

While swiftly soar the gulls, and o'er 

Our spray-besprinkled boat. 
In wonder stare adown the air 

At our big bird afloat. 

Alas, I fear, my airy dear. 

The breeze would snatch away 
Your form in haste, if round your waist 

My arm should fail to stray. 

The naughty wind has sweetly sinned 

To kiss your lips and cheek — 
O let me play the breeze to-day, 

And emulate the freak! 

Be sure, my love, life's sea above 

We two might sail together; 
With you beside, my boat would ride 

Howe'er so rough the weather. 

Away, away, across the bay, 

And soon to reach the shore; 
But full and free love's nectared sea 

Sweeps sparkling far before. 



46 A BOOK OF VERSE 



THE SENIOR MAID 

O hast thou seen the Senior Maid? 
The Senior Maid in cap and gown? 
Hast thou beheld the lightsome shade 
Come tripping soft the path adown? 
How, through the gleaming snow, her form 
Presents sweet contrast to the storm? 
O Freshie, quake and be afraid! 
She comes, she comes, the Senior Maid. 

The Senior Maid in cap and gown 
Who softly trips the path adown, 
What cares she if her sparkling eyes 
Have moved a lonely youth to sighs? 
What cares she though the freshman heart 
Be cleft in twain and torn apart? 
That heart beneath her feet low laid. 
She sweetly smiles, the Senior Maid. 

But when the Maid has laid aside 
Her sable garment, floating wide. 
Has doffed her tasseled, angled hat — 
That angled both for barb and frat — 
The Freshie knows what lent the charm 
To Senior Maid who wrought such harm; 
For by the change it is displayed. 
By cap and gown is Senior made. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 47 



THE DEVIL TAKE THE GIRL 

The devil take the girl! I said, 

±'he devil take the girl! 

Those kiss-inviting lips so red, 

That low, sweet voice, each waving curl, 

Were but to tantalize and tangle — 

Bright flies wherewith to deftly angle. 

Till, from the brook, 

By silken thread she saw me dangle 

Upon her hook. 

The devil take the girl! ah yes. 
The devil take the girl! 
O'er mountain crag and ocean level 
Sweep her far with dizzy whirl. 
Where the smoking lavas purl — 
But O thou witch! I must confess 
I'd like to be — the devil. 



WHY WE CELEBRATE 

George Washington, our country's dad. 
He up and slew a cherry tree; 
That made our country's grand-dad mad — 
O he was mad, as mad could be! 



48 A BOOK OF VERSE 

Now George he couldn't tell a lie 
(He wasn't bad like you and me) 
And so he sobbed out, *Ta, 'twas I, 
I tomahawked the cherry tree." 

And then our country's daddy's dad 
Was glad 'cause George no lie would lay 
On his square soul all undefiled — 
That's why we celebrate the day. 



THE INVISIBLE HARVEST 

The hard-eyed farmer yonder seems to wonder 
What business I have hanging round his land; 
Thinks me a tax assessor seeking plunder, 
Would like to have me clearly understand 
I should come straight to him, or go to thunder! — 
To him, proud owner of this muck and sand. 

Little he understands the stranger's reason 
For loitering by the roadside while the light 
Slants in long rays, this sweet mid-summer season, 
Through woodland witcheries wherein the night 
Already lurks in lengthening shades of trees on 
The rich, dark velvet — Whitman's now by right. 

With the real owner of your fertile good land 
My business is. I care not for your yield 



A BOOK OF VE:RSE 49 

Of corn and hay and kine. Ah, truly should land 
Yield only these? A subtle edge I wield 
To cut a little wonder from your woodland 
And reap a little beauty from your field. 



THE POET'S PAIN 

Ah yes, they think we play 

And dally with the pen. 

And airy sprites upconjure with a spell 

To weave our tuneful lay, 

Nor toil like other men, 

That what we buy for naught for fame we sell. 

Alas, they cannot know 

The heart's red blood we spill, 

The panting pain and agony of the chase 

When dies the exultant glow 

From the wearied heart, and still 

The taunting vision flits before our face. 



50 A BOOK OF VEJRSE 



PRAYER OF THE WEARY HEART 

God, my heart is weary! 
All the day 

The world has beat and clashed against my soul; 

The way is long, the way is long and dreary, 

Far the goal; 

Father, forgive me, but I only pray — 

Howe'er unthankful my sad prayer may seem — 

1 can but pray, dear God, for Lethe's stream! 

Father, my heart's fainting — 
Morning breaks, 

It breaks with burning splendors o'er the world, 
An angel hand the eastern sky seems painting, 
Dawn's unfurled 

The birdling wings — alas, this beauty makes 
My heart but sadder; midst the glorious gleam 

1 only pray, dear God, for Lethe's stream. 

O Father, I have striven, striven 

To do my part ; 

Have strained each nerve to run the course of life; 

Have tried to use the strength which thou hast given ; 

But now from strife 

My soul shrinks fainting, and my weary heart 

Recoils with pain e'en from the morning's gleam, 

Even nozv I can but pray for Lethe's stream. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 51 

O God, the world seems hollow — 

Nothing worth; 

How can I strive with nothing worth the pain? 

Where leads the sharded path that I should follow? 

Why the strain? 

Since heaven itself seems but a joyless dearth — 

Forgive me, Father, that I dare to deem 

Thy heaven a dearth, and pray for Lethe's stream. 



WHAT IS A SONNET? 

What is a sonnet? 'Tis a wondrous box 

Like that the gods gave to Pandora, filled 

With precious memory perfumes, all distilled 

From noble hearts in pain. The sonnet locks 

Tight in its tiny walls a world of mocks, 

Scornings, neglects; many fair blossoms chilled 

By springtide frosts in the soul's gardens, killed 

Long ere the time of fruitage; and little flocks 

Of half-hushed songsters. Ah, it sometimes seems 

A jewelled and translucent sepulcher 

Holding the bitter and sweet, the glooms and gleams 

Of all the personal past embalmed and pure ; 

A Morphean cave, clouded with tragic dreams, 

Through which the eyes of Hope shine soft and sure. 



52 A BOOK OF VERSE 



TO POESY 



Poesy, no joyous pilgrim waits 

Before thy temple; but from cavern shades 
And weary leagues of boundless, gloomy glades, 

1 come with bowed head to thy close-barred gates. 
Nor hope to hear aught that the heart elates, 
No song of joy whose lilting ripple aids 

The exiled soul to brave the whirling blades 
That guard lost paradise. The sullen fates 
Allow me no such hope. I only come 
To hearken, if, perchance, with straining ear 
I may but catch some low and droning hum 
From chambers far within, while I stand here 
And listen till my tingling nerves are numb 
To thy sweet murmurings, so far, so dear. 



TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Thy soul wast ever in sad twilight's train : 
An early twilight, w^hen the westering sun 
Sinks into storm clouds ere his course is run; 
Ere starry births can heal the pale sky's pain, 
But low winds sigh of gloomy night and rain, 
And the world's woe seems only just begun, 
Where hearts must sicken till lone life be done. 



A BOOK OF VHRSK 53 

And every benediction turns to bane. 

Sad twilight soul — Yet as that yearning tomb 

(Which can not wait to gulf the falling king 

But rises, rumbling, with its arms of gloom 

To drag him down) will sometimes burst, and fling 

The imprisoned glory from its walls of doom — 

Such golden promise does thy sad verse bring. 



TO EDGAR ALLAN POE 

O slandered here and sinned against! But now 

Thy melody, too fine for sluggish air. 

Pulses in rhythmic waves of ether where 

Celestial spheres are vocal. There thy brow 

Glows with the glory of that song, and thou 

Joinest the symphony of yearning prayer 

Which all the rapturous immortals bear 

To the Ineffable, before whom bow 

The seraph-songsters. O world-wearied sprite 

That flashed across the dense, dank gloom of earth, 

Thrilling a moment our cold, clammy night 

With thy sweet meteor train of stellar birth — 

Doers of evil, dull to heavenly worth. 

Men loved their darkness better than thy light. 



54 A BOOK OF VERSE 



TO THEE, BRIGHT SPIRIT 

To thee, bright spirit in the blest abode, 

To thee, dear mother of the one I love, 

I open wide my heart that from above 

Thou mayst look down along the star-paved road; 

And by the white light which for aye has flowed 

From God's eternal throne and the radiance of 

The hovering pinions of his spirit-dove, 

Search me, O thou to whom my all is owed. 

And whatsoever in my mortal heart 

Shows black and blemished in that chastening light — 

Low thoughts the sources whence mean actions start, 

Rude passions that the soul's fair blossoms blight — 

I pray that thou, by some high heavenly art, 

Wilt show to me that I may love aright. 



THE CHURCH 

I saw the church in the making: the sons of toil, 
Coarse-clad and roughly bearded, plied them there 
With shovel and trowel, hammer and saw and square. 
Working at dizzy heights, or deep in the soil 
Through oozing mud compelled to delve and moil 
To gain a morsel of bread ; while through their care. 
Firm-based and beautiful the house of prayer 



A BOOK OF VERSK 55 

Rose, a fair fortress of the Christ to foil 
The Prince of Darkness. Then, on the Sabbath morn 
I saw the finished church. As the solemn bell 
Pealed from the steeple, to this beauteous bourne 
Thronged the sleek sons of wealth, and hither all 
Fashion's fair daughters tripped with pert footfall — 
But where were the builders? Where were the weary 
and worn? 



THE ATHEIST 

desolate town this dawnless morn! The wind 
Howls chill and drear, haunting your vacancy; 
The gusty snows, powdering from roof and tree. 
Gray in the smothered street-lamp's haze, can find 
No rest from wandering, dreary, restless, blind. 
And yet beneath those shivering roofs may be 
Soft, rosy dreams of slumbering infancy, 
Safe-havened within the heaven of thoughtless mind. 
Alas, O sifting snow, fit emblem thou — 

Cold, naked, helpless in the bitter blast — 
O^ my own life! With eyes unveiled now 

1 watch the mindless All that whirls me fast 
From nothing unto nothing, wondering how 
To gain one sweet, blind moment, first and last. 



S6 A BOOK OF VERSE 



OMEGA 

Death lowers in the leaden sky; the air 

Is chilled with death; o'er all the world the snow 

Rests with a dreary weight; far, far below, 

The seeds of life in impotent despair 

Yield to the drear dominion ; all that's fair — 

All living stir, all joyous flush and glow 

Are wrapped within a shroud of whited woe, 

And death, drear death, is tyrant everywhere. 

Ah, mock me not by telling of the spring. 

The spring that through the icy trees and o'er 

The frozen stream shall pass with magic wing, 

And break death's dreary reign from shore to shore. 

What joy, a few death-girdled springs to sing? — 

Beyond the throbbing stars waits death forevermore. 



A NOVEMBER DAY 

Dear love, dear love, the drear November day 
Fades slowly into gray, chill, cheerless night, 
And my tired heart doth shiver with affright 
To think of all the long thorn-cursed way 
My soul must travel till the breaking day 
Doth bring again the birth-pangs of new light 
With its fresh curse upon my aching sight 



A BOOK OF VERSE 57 

And sickening throb of agonized dismay. 

Ah God, dear God, what peace when day is done? 

Ah God, dear God, what peace at coming morn? 

The pale stars in high heaven, every one, 

Do mock me with their myriad gaze of scorn ; 

Then, o'er their gray cold grave the tyrant sun 

Stalks like cruel pain o'er my lost hopes forlorn. 



DESPAIR AND SCORN 

The morn was bright with promise, but a cloud — 

Huge, dusky, chill — has blurred the rosy light ; 

Better by far the nothingness of night 

Than halting day with brooding glooms endowed! 

Better no dawn, if there be not allowed 

A cheerful day to fill the promise right! 

Was it for this the orient was bedight? 

O festal torches smothered in a shroud ! 

So moaned my heart, but through the gathering gloom 

A low, hard voice of calm disdain I heard: 

"Poor weakling, has the bright world proved a tomb? 

At least the vault is spacious ; there is room 

To raise thy forehead, godlike, and to gird 

i'hy armor on, undaunted by thy doom." 



58 A BOOK OF VKRSE 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Oh I wonder if to-night 

They should bring the Holy Child 

To the blare and blazing light, 

To the worry and affright, 

Of our cities, commerce-wild; 

Would he not shrink back afraid, 

Nestle close in Mary's arms. 

While his wide-eyed glances strayed 

Through the crowd that rocked and swayed, 

Clamoring confused alarms? 

Who, amid that sordid sea, 

So ill-suited to the scene 

As the child? Oh, would not he 

Wonder, as do sometimes we. 

What these mad processions mean? 



A SOUL'S ERROR 

It is not that you do not love me, 
Marguerite, 
Not that which makes me sad. 
I could adore thee, starred above me, 
That were meet; 
And though no lyrics glad 



A BOOK 0? VERSE 59 

Should well up from a heart rejoicing, 
Marguerite, 
I could thank God that He 
Had set my soul-strings all avoicing 
Praises sweet, 
For thy pure light on me. 

But this : that I mistook for starlight, 
Marguerite, 
The marsh-lamp's flickering flare; 
An earthly exhalation for the far light 
Pure, replete 
With heavenly flashings fair. 



REPENTANCE 

When the eyes grow dim and vacant 

And the nerves are slack and stale, 
When the flesh hangs shrunk and sallow 

And the blood is thin and pale, 
Comes Repentance, pointing finger. 

Shaking head at bygone days 
When the stream of life ran redder 

Down the winding, sinful ways. 

O Repentance, false Repentance! 

Cold regret for what is past! 
Cold regret that hides a longing 



6o A BOOK OF VERSE 

For the joys which could not last. 
O inert, inane Repentance, 

Shrivelled child of youth and sin. 
More immoral than indulgence — 

Bitter dregs where sweets have been! 

Ah, sham, hypocrite, Repentance! 

When the wine no more imparts 
Glow and gladness, and the gaming 

Fails to thrill our jaded hearts. 
When no more the sanguine beauty 

Of witch-woman waves away 
All cold spectres of the morrow 

With the wand of warm to-day — 

Then to talk of pious, prayerful, 

Saintly sweet Repentance, ah, 
That shall gladden the high angels 

In their heavenly mansions. Bah! 
That shall make the devils, rather, 

Hotter blush in hell's red heat 
Since who dared to drink sin's poison 

Dared but while the draft was sweet. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 6l 



A MODERN OMAR 



Forget, forget the prudence of the past! 
The future consequences? Let them be! 
The past is dead: it knows nor feast nor fast. 
The past is dead. The future, who can see? 



'Tis true, my love, this bliss may turn to woe, 
The present joy become a thing despised; 
But sorrow always follows bliss, we know : 
Or guilty, or divine, 'tis soon by pain surprised. 

Does not the shadow ever chase the sun? 
And if at morn, my love, you shut your eyes, 
Will that assure you of light when day is done, — 
Bring back a single beam when sunset dies? 

Two Mekka-pilgrims in a desert waste 
Came suddenly unto a little dell: 
Date palms o'ershadowed all the verdant place. 
And crystal waters sprayed, and sparkling fell. 

One pilgrim paused to pluck the dangling fruit, 
And cool his lips and limbs in the fountain's spray; 
The other, Allah and Mahound to suit, 
Bit his parched lips and held his fasting way. 



62 A BOOK OF VERSK 

Both perished ere they reached their journey's end; 
But one had tasted pleasure by the way, 
And accepted all that grudging life would lend. 
Which was the wiser pilgrim? Tell me, pray. 



ON THE WHEEL 

Helpless creature in the basket, 

Helpless creature in the casket — 
This the alpha and omega of the round of human life ? 

What precedes or what comes after 

This brief course of tears and laughter? 
Many clamorous creeds give answer, but their answers 
are at strife. 

We accept as surest, clearest, 
The crude answer that is nearest, 
Pack the question in the closet while we rush into the 
street ; 
Join the round of parting, greeting. 
Round of working and of eating — 
Eating that our hands may labor, laboring that our 
mouths may eat. 

Only here and there some hectic. 
Fevered toiler turns a skeptic. 
Stops to question what the meaning of the weary 
whirl may be ; 



A BOOK OI^ VERSE 63 

Sowing, reaping, reaping, sowing 
Serve to keep life's wheel agoing, 
But he wonders if the mad wheel has an axle fixed 
or free. 

Does the wheel keep turning, turning — 
One unmeaning, endless churning, 
Shaking dead dust into breathing, shaking live dust 
out of breath? 
Does the wheel toil up some sloping 
Wondrous path to hills of hoping? 
Does the wheel spin down some dizzying, slippery- 
slope to depths of death? 

Thus he questions, thus he ponders 
Till his mind in circles wonders. 
Wanders round a dizzy circle of the multiform Per- 
chance. 
How can one upon the turning 
Rim have power of discerning 
The wheel's motion in the center while the spokes so 
madly dance? 

Helpless creature in the basket. 

Helpless creature in the casket — 
This the alpha and omega of the round of human life ? 

What precedes or what comes after 

This brief course of tears and laughter? 
Many clamorous creeds give answer, but their answers 
are at strife. 



64 A BOOK OF VERSE 



THE EXPOSAL 

I sat and gazed at the bend of the sky and over the 

spread of the sea 
Till the vacant world was athrob with life like the 

life that throbbed in me. 
And my heart yearned out to the living world, and 

the world yearned back to mine, 
And Joy leapt up when life met life as grape meets 

grape in the wine. 

Aye, Joy leapt up; yet his face was strange, and his 
eyes half turned aside. 

And his whole form shook like a candle-flame when 
the door is opened wide. 

His wavering smile was wistful-sweet, and his voice, 
though it rang like a bell. 

Had a yearning close, had a hidden hint of a some- 
thing he would not tell. 

He prayed to be gone, with a promise to come back 

at a word, at a nod. 
He promised to lurk in the shade of each task, and 

to peep from the very sod; 
But the steady gaze of my searching soul, O this he 

could not abide! 
So he prayed to be gone in his own wild way ere his 

soul should ebb like the tide. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 65 

But I pinned him fast with the lance of my eye, though 

I mourned for his piteous plight, 
And he faded before my searching gaze as the sunset 

fades into night; 
And again, alone by the naked shore, heart-heavy but 

phantom-free, 
I sat and gazed at the bend of the sky and over the 

spread of the sea. 



LIGHT AND DARK 

In full light, God's straight pathway was sloping 
Up the crags, while below him went groping 

Pleasure's dupes down to Sin's gilded ark; 
His Christ on the road strode before him; 
Rough road, but the heavens smiled o'er him^ 
And a crown on the mountain top for him — 

But how would he strive in the dark? 

He saw God's might in the mountain, 
He felt God leap in the fountain, 

He heard God's song from the lark; 
'Tis well he with strongest has striven. 
Has struggled and striven and thriven — 
But tell, e'er our praises we give him. 

How would he strive in the dark. 



66 A BOOK OF VERSE 



FOREBODINGS 

Stately ship, proudly breasting tiie waves. 
There's a rock lying hid in the deep : 
There are cold, dimly-lit grotto graves 
Where the sea serpents writhingly creep. 

Little floweret, nodding anear 
To the pathway, half hid in the grass. 
There are thoughtless clouts soon to appear 
Wlio will cnish you to earth as they pass. 

Dauntless youth all atingle with might 

So eagerly greeting life's mom. 

There's defeat, and despair, and death's night 

Closing down on God"s pity, man's scorn. 

Little maiden with eyes wonder-wide 
Gazing out on the great wonder-world. 
In von wood where the song-birds abide 
There's a glade where the serpents lie curled. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 



THE DEWDROPS AND THE SUN 

Dainty, little, crystal dewdrops, 
Born beneath the beaming stars, 
Do you note the day is dawning? 
Eastern sky, all crimson bars, 
Hangs aloft her gorgeous awning. 

Ah, too trustful little dewdrops! 
Soon the Sun with nectared light. 
Like the God of Love, will thrill you; 
You will glow with heaven's delight — 
But his fervent kiss will kill you. 



THE ANSWER 

I prayed for my desire. All the stars 

Twinkled in golden mockery; the moon 

Was pitiful but powerless. No boon, 

No help for me in heaven. Then the world, 

The gray, old slumberous earth about me furled 

Her poppied shadows — O my soul, my soul, 

Better to beat vain wings against the impassable bars ! 



68 A BOOK OF VERSK 



HER PIANO 

How silent now it stands in the half gloom 
Of that far corner by the drooping palm! 
Faintly the glimmer from yon shaded casement, 
As the drawn curtain shivers, round the room 
Wavers, and shudders o'er the glossy calm 
Of ivory keys and midnight ebony. 
While the sad house from chimney top to basement 
Groans in the wind's embrace all drearily. 



I dare not touch those keys ; their ghostly sheen 

Through the lone room creeps o'er my shuddering soul 

So shivering slow, and leaves it icy numb. 

Like marbled sorrows in a graveyard seen, 

When the far bells the midnight hours toll, 

The hound's death-howl rides down the whimpering 

wind, 
Through ragged clouds the starbeams struggling 

come — 
Pale, silent keys, God tear them from my mind! 



A BOOK OF VERSE 69 



DE PROFUNDI S 

I may not tell thee that I love thee, sweet, 
Nor fondly breathe thy praises in thine ear, 
Never may fold these arms about thee, dear, 
'Twere sacrilege my lips with thine should meet. 

But here within the temple of my heart, 
Here in the secret chamber of my soul, 
Here where the mystic notes of music roll, 
The mystic notes eluding poet's art — 

Here will I shrine thee, love, and bar the door 
To every flitting fancy that might taint 
The spotless purity of a heavenly saint 
Where seraphs sing in the golden-evermore. 

In other chambers of my heart are heard 
Sometimes the discords of desire and hate, 
And unclean spirits at the portals wait. 
Ready to hiss the soul-seducing word; 

But dim with incense shall this chamber be. 
And holy thought and undefiled love 
Shall gird thee round, and only God above 
Shall know with what a pang I yearn for thee. 



70 A BOOK OF VERSE 



SIGH ON, SAD WIND 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on! 

Sigh through the shivering reeds 

That fringe the lonely lake; 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on 

Through the tangled path that leads 

By many a bramble and brake 

To the worn, old hut o'erclomb with weeds, 

Sigh on for a soul's sweet sake. 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on! 

Sob low for the maid of the mere, 

More fair than the lily white, 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on! 

For I ween that her soul is anear. 

That her soul hovers near on the wings of the night 

Sigh on, for our love was dear. 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on! 

O'er the face of each floweret fair. 

Tear-stained by the grief of the gloom. 

Sigh on, sad wind, sigh on! 

Sigh softly, most mournfully where 

The willow weeps over her tomb. 

Weeps wofully ever, o'erstooped as in prayer — 

God grant I may sleep there soon ! 



A BOOK OF VERSE 



PONCE DE LEON* 



O years ago to Florida came Ponce de Leon. 

The skies were bright above his head, the breezes 

warm and sweet; 
But fragrant breeze and shining sky and the blossoms 

at his feet 
Were dust to him whose aged eyes with fevered 

yearning shone. 

For Ponce de Leon had felt the fleeting, thieving 
hours 

Go plundering on their evil way youth's vivid mead- 
ows through; 

Petal by petal the flowers had died, and pearl by 
pearl the dew, 

And now life's bitter, withering fruits followed the 
glowing flowers. 

And so from royal Spain he sailed, from rich and 

royal Spain, 
A land of weird and wild romance where wondrous 

things befell 
(But that was in the olden time whereof the legends 

tell, 



♦The reader is reminded that Ponce de Leon (pronounced Pon-the-de-le- 
on) died in Cuba whither he had retired in the vain hope of being cured 
of a wound occasioned by a poisoned arrow. 



'/2 A BOOK OF VERSE 

While in his day death knew no bribes and pain was 
only pain.) 

But in that land beyond the sea, that world as fresh 
as strange, 

O there, perhaps, the wondrous things were wondrous 
things in truth, 

And there, 'twas rumored, flowed a fountain of per- 
petual youth; 

So Ponce de Leon had come through Florida to range. 

O many a great and wondrous tree he found, and 
many a bird 

Unknown in that worn world he left; and many a 
fountain, too. 

Gushed from this new enchanted ground where frag- 
rant flowers grew — 

But not, alas, that wondrous fount whereof his heart 
had heard. 

O Ponce de Leon, we, too, have many marvels 

known — 
More marvelous than all the things which Florida 

unfurled — 
We sail the sea in cities, we converse around the 

world, 
Harness the lightning to our cars, make the very 

heavens our own. 

And yet for all our marvels we have reaped no real 
return. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 73 

We have learned this sad distinction in the realm of 
wondrous things: 

That all to-day's impossibles, full-wrought the mor- 
row brings — 

Except the things of life itself. For these we vainly 
yearn. 

Ah, while with feeble steps you sought the fount, the 

poisoned dart 
O'ertook you in its surer search; on Cuba's isle the 

cold. 
Inevitable draught you drank, the draught you feared 

of old ; 
Stilled was the last protesting breath, stifled the 

straining heart. 

Was this the very fount you sought, though all to 

you unknown? 
Did the bottom of this cup contain the magic draught 

in truth? 
Amid our barren wonders, well we know eternal 

youth 
Lurks in death's cup — if anywhere — O Ponce de 

Leon. 



74 A BCX)K OF VERSE 



ALL-SEEING OR UNSEEING 

For me it is a solemn joy to walk 

Alone beneath the cloudless cope of night, 

And feel the gazings of the myriad 

All-seeing or unseeing eyes of heaven, 

The cold enchantment of whose mute regard 

Brings home to me with poignant forcefulness 

The stubborn wonder of the universe. 

Defiant secrecy is in their gaze ; 

I, peering in the open cosmic face, 

See not a single feature Solemn stars, 

Steady and staring, bright in the awful dark 

Of the infinite desert of space ! — pathetic points 

Of lonely light, yet pitiless, nor seeking 

Pity — for oh, the shivering tremulousness 

With which your long beams pierce the airy folds 

Of this our tiny planet, seems but a twinkle 

Of the grim humor of the universe, 

The scorn of each flung back at the scorn of all. 

All-seeing or unseeing — ah in this 

Lies the great riddle of the universe. 

The riddle that we can not, dare not solve ; 

But from the dread dilemma seeking shelter, 

Worship our wish about the great Perhaps, 

Rejoicing in our coward hearts, indeed. 

That we must shirk the absolute, sundering choice 



A BOOK OF VERSE 75 

Of thinking it all purpose or all blindness, 
All God, or no God — thus our pettiness 
Makes profit of the star-writ mystery! 

For think; if these same unrevealing stars 
Could suddenly shoot forth intenser beams — 
Beams that should lay bare in the middle ground 
Of our poor human apprehension all 
The twin infinities of the far and near. 
That we might see, clear as our finger tips 
The smallest speck of dust in the Milky Way, 
And all the links, lost in the fathomless near, 
Between the thought and the thing — then would we 

dare 
To open eyes and look? Ah, gladly we 
Would let the moment pass, fearing that glance 
Which should reveal to us a universe 
All death and darkness, or all life and light. 

So would we all, indeed, — and yet as I 
Stare in the haughty star-face of the night. 
My soul leaps out to dare the dreadful test. 
Oh, I might find a regnant Will in all, 
A power unconditioned, never thwarted. 
Potent beneficence in all the tangle 
Of seeming clash and cruel contradiction! 

Or if the truth proved other, and I found 
A universe all blind and purposeless. 
With what a shuddering yet daring pride 



76 A BOOK OF VERSE 

I should gaze out upon the waste of night — 

I but a merest nothing on a mote 

Of stellar dust in the infinite, uncreated 

Never ending, blindly changing whirl 

Of universal matter — I so puny, 

So powerless, and so transient — and yet lord. 

Lord by the pang of poignant consciousness. 

Of all that desert realm of rolling spheres. 



AT DAWN AND YOUTH 

At dawn and youth when life is fresh, 
We love the world's vast mystery: 
We love the doubt, the storm and stress 
Of daring thought ; we like to think 
An unknown power 's behind the brink - 
Not God, not Pan, not Fate; perhaps 
Our best conjectures but frail traps 
To snare the omnipotently free. 

Oh, then indeed, we're glad to feel 
That after these heart-throbs intense 
Comes — what? to know not if the real 
Be glorious life or silent dust. 
Faith's sure reward or mock of trust. 
But when the evening shadows fall. 
Our hearts grow weary of it all ; 
We shudder at the grave's cold sod, 
And yearn for that sure Father-God 
Of childhood's faith and innocence. 



A BOOK OF VERSE ']'] 



OUT OF TUNE 

O Harp of my Heart, why never a tune? 

Melodious music's in air; 

To brook song and bird song trips in the glad June 

Joy, joy on rapt wing is asoar everywhere : 

But mute thy unanswering strings, all mute, 

As an old garret's sullen, sad lute. 

Ah naught but the moan of the gloom-brooded sea, 
Or the sob of the shadow-shook pine, 
Calls forth a deep, quivering groan out of thee; 
O Harp of my Heart, sad responses are thine! 
Then come, sweet atuner, and touch every string. 
Come, Love, and my Heart's Harp to heaven shall 
ring. 



MOTHER MINE 

Mother mine, how oft at eve 
When the dusky shadows creep 
Through my window, while I'm deep 
In my book, my mind will leave 
Learning's lore and truant fly 
To my homeland far away, 



78 A BOOK OF VERSE 

Dear home city on the bay, 
Fly to thee and hover nigh, 
Mother mine! 

Mother mine, how oft at morn 
When the dim, grey matin light 
Steals athwart the raven night, 
Heralding the day, new born; 
While I ope my heavy eyes. 
And the sable folds of sleep 
Slip into the mystic deep, 
Memory brings thee, precious prize. 
Mother mine! 



STAR OF MY LIFE 

Star of my life, O let me lave 
My soul within thy radiant light! 
I need thy ray across the night 
To guide my clouded course and save 

My bark from gulfing waves that lash 
The blackened rocks of grim despair; 
To starboard, larboard, everywhere. 
The towering breakers crash. 



A BOOK OF VKRSE 79 

Enough, my star, if, eyes astrain 
To pierce the midnight gloom, I steer 
With only thy sweet light to cheer 
In safety o'er the perilous main. 

Enough; it may not be my course 
Should lead through heaven's peaceful blue, 
Above the tossing waves with you — 
Above temptation, sin, remorse. 

Be this my trust, my bow of hope: 

That if I grasp the helm and face 

The storm undaunted, straitly trace 

My course where thy bright rays do slope 

From heaven's serene to breaker's foam. 
Unmindful of the shrieking blast. 
The haven I may reach at last 
And greet thee in thy radiant home. 



SORROW'S BOND 

I dreamed, dear heart, pale Dawn and Twilight fair 
Were lovers vainly yearning to embrace; 
But tyrant Day and Night with frowning face 
By cruel turns thrust wide apart the pair. 



8o A BOOK OF VERSie 

Till kind Eclipse shadowed the glowing Sun, 
And Earth and Sky in ashen sadness swooned; 
And then — as we, when Sorrow round us gloomed 
The pensive pair were mingled into one. 



BENEATH THE STARS 

O love, my love, the night 

Ushers her starry host into the sky, 

And all the world doth feel her stilly might, 

But thou and I. 

Our hearts too fervent beat 

To note the poppy potency she brings 

In cooling cup of numbing nectar, sweet 

As lethean springs. 

O patient stars above, 
Impart to us your holy, tremulous calm. 
We pray not to forget our fervent love 
In dreamless balm ; 

But this our breathed prayer. 
That ye will dull the point of yearning pain 
With memories sweet, and hopes of bliss again, 
Ye hosts of air. 



A BOOK OF VERSE 8l 

O love, my love, the night 

Ushers her starry host into the sky, 

And all the world doth feel her stilly might, 

But thou and I. 



YOUR BIRTHDAY 

This is the day, dear heart, when you were bom: 
A day of mid-September when the year 
Still wears the garb of greenery, yet unshorn 
The trees stand proudly crowned with summer cheer. 

Summer has not departed, but the nights 
Come with a silent chill, preluding frost: 
Later and later dawns the morning light, 

Sooner and sooner sunset's charms are lost. 

Faintly the sun fights with the river mists, 
Paler the pomp of noonday; everywhere 
A boding sadness, for the season lists 
To a feared footfall far on the darkling stair. 

'Tis the old presage of the coming Cold, 
Slowing the pulse of nature; soon, ah soon. 
His icy fingers in the night shall hold 
The dying flowers beneath the pitying moon. 



82 A BOOK OF VERSE 

Then comes the sweet, sad season of my birth, 
The time of late October when the trees, 
Knowing their doom, give back to the fostering earth 
Her lavish gifts ; for every wanton breeze 

Flutters with flakes of glory, or one by one, 
In a soft hush of solemn starlight, fall 
The perfect paintings of the frost and sun, 
No two alike but richly patterned all. 

Dear heart, we own autumnal origin, 
Appearing when the year was in decline ; 
We came when nature saddened, to begin 
Life's vivid journey through the shade and shine. 

No sad reflections follow, for if men 

Have likened life to a sad journeying 

From spring to autumn, ours is a journey, then, 

Which leads through winter to the joyous spring. 



OUR CHRISTMAS 

The Yuletide has returned again, dear wife, 

And finds us still in quiet, humble ways: 

No great deeds done, no place in the world's praise 

Onlookers, hardly sharers in the strife. 

Like wayside waifs, we hear the drum and fife, 

And see the guns gleam and the banners blaze, 



A BOOK OF VERSE 83 

And stare a moment in a wistful daze; 
Then turn aside to the byways of our life. 
Yet a dear difference marks this Christmastide, 
A difference which softly to our hearts 
Brings home the very meaning that the mild 
Bethlehem mother knew when at her side 
She found the first, best gift the Day imparts, 
The world's sweet sovereign — a little Child. 



SLEEP, DARLING, SLEEP 

Sleep, darling, sleep while thy mother bends o'er thee^ 
Sleep, darling, sleep through the deepening gloom; 
Twilight hath kissed thee, and now to adore thee 
Up from the silvered wave rises the moon. 
Sleep, darling, sleep. 

Sleep, darling, sleep; gentle breezes come stealing 
In through the casement with soft, rustling wings. 
Fondling thy ringlets with cool touch, and healing 
Thy warm, wearied brow in dim night's dewy springs. 
Sleep, darling, sleep. 

Sleep, darling, sleep; dainty dream-birds are singing 
Their songs of enchanted, far off, happy lands 
Where fairy bells all in sweet concert are ringing. 
And ripples are whispering on star-litten strands. 
Sleep, darling, sleep. 



84 A BOOK OF VERSE 



A LULLABY 

Slumber sweetly, baby mine, 
Slumber through the gloaming; 
Dreamland's boundless realms are thine, 
For thy restful roaming — 
Shadowed vales where all the trees 
Whisper woodsy mysteries, 
While the murmur of the breeze 
Tells of far seas foaming. 

Slumber sweetly, baby mine; 
Birdling wings are furled, 
Flowerets on the arbor vine 
All are snug upcurled ; 
Stars alone, who sleep by day, 
Gentle vigil keep alway 
While soft shades the angels lay 
O'er the wearied world. 

Slumber sweetly, baby mine; 
Soon the dawn's red warning 
On thy baby brow will shine, 
Night's dim glories scorning. 
Sweet thy dreamy, smiling rest, 
Lit by gleams from regions blest, 
Sweet, by unseen hands caressed, 
Slumbering till the morning. 



A I 



;00K OF VERSlv 85 



IN FAIRYLAND 

Sitting within her cab, her little head 
Turning with eager glance from side to side, 
Through wonderland my baby seems to ride, 
By father followed, but by fairies led — 
For oh, those wide, blue, dancing eyes are fed 
With more than mortal dainties ; sprites that hide 
From dull, cold, grown-up gazing are descried, 
With all their filmy, rainbow wings outspread. 
And gazing with her at the flowers, the trees. 
And listening to the sparrows' chirping choirs, 
I half discern the magic world she sees, 
And strain to catch the thrill of silver lyres — 
Lo, where the sunflowers nodded in the breeze. 
The fairies toss their glowing, globed fires! 



NEVERTHELESS 

Something 's accomplished, but the vast undone 
Affrights us as the dawning greets the day. 
While in the hush we hear the hours say: 
"What yesterday you sowed, to-morrow's sun 
Will bring to fruitage ; but no warning ray 
Can ripen what you sowed not." With dismay 
We find us fettered to our past by one 



86 A BOOK OF VE:RSE 

Unbroken chain whose links we forged for aye. 
Depressed by mad neglect and thoughtless deeds 
Of years whose ban we can not change to boon, 
We shudder. But remorse more losses breeds. 
Slept we the dawn away ? We'll seize the noon ! 
Was the day spent in sowing worthless weeds? 
We'll sow the good seed by the waning moon! 



TWILIGHT 

Her brow aflush with sunset's parting ray, 
And tresses floating toward the first dim star. 
Rides Twilight, pensive child of Night and Day, 
Mounted upon her gray, soft-rolling car. 

Goddess is she of sighs and fond regret, 
Breathing the memories of happier years. 
Whispering with patient lips her sad ''Not yet," 
Casting her spell of mingled hopes and fears. 



GONE 



The curtain yet sways, 

In the air is a faint perfume. 

And a dying echo strays, 

Strays back to the long, lone room; 



A BOOK OF VERSE 87 

A glimmer athwart the gloom, 

On the dark a dim grey haze, 

And a leaden cross of unutterable loss 

The staggering shadows raise. 



THE HARBOR CALL 

Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail; 

No longer your stays are astrain in the gale. 

Where the fierce ocean surges crashed over the prow, 

The gay harbor ripples are frolicking now ; 

Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail. 

Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail; 
For the sharp-stinging sleet and loud-rattling hail 
No longer are rife, and the sky-seeking mast 
No more cowers low to the mad, howling blast; 
Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail. 

Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail. 

Flowered fragrance outwafts from the blossoming 

dale. 
Far and faint the long boom of the harbor mouth 

surf. 
Right ahead the firm hills and the welcoming turf; 
Furl your sail, mariner, furl your sail. 



I 



